


Die to Protect Me

by stitchcasual



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-DA2, Pre-DAI, Red Hawke, Warrior!Hawke, mortal peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9565367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/pseuds/stitchcasual
Summary: Inspired by the line from Here Lies the Abyss: "Fenris would have killed himself to protect me. I didn't want to give him that chance."What could have happened between Hawke and Fenris leaving Kirkwall and Hawke showing up alone at Skyhold?Or: Fenris is gravely injured and Hawke handles it poorly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr as a series of drabbles, now collected here in one long shot. Let me know if anything else needs to be tagged!

The slavers were getting smarter. It was an unfortunate side effect of sending a few of the first groups they’d taken out crying back to their leaders as a message that this part of the Free Marches, at least, was defended against their kind. Alas, it didn’t stop their expeditions. They had seen a marked decrease, however, and this Hawke and Fenris had cheered when it happened, splitting a bottle of wine at a tavern when they next neared some sort of civilization.

The last few groups they’d taken on had been larger than normal, boasting more mages and more archers. Evidently the slavers they’d spared had reported back on the disposition of the slaver hunters, namely that they both carried greatswords and thus were at a severe disadvantage against ranged weaponry. At least Fenris didn’t say “I told you so,” but the looks he gave Hawke while he bandaged Hawke’s wounds at their camp afterward said that and more.

But Fenris was happy and Hawke was happy, much happier than attempting to rule Kirkwall while it continued to fall to shit. In a way, it was almost a relief that the Templars there had resorted to using red lyrium, eventually becoming paranoid enough to try and take him out. As viscount, he’d felt ineffective, barely able to hold the city together. As a rogue slaver hunter, however, he felt that at least something he did mattered in a very real way to someone else. The gratitude that gushed from the people they rescued unnerved him, but he’d learned to accept it and move on. It made Fenris a little uncomfortable as well, but Hawke could tell that each group they freed lightened something within him. 

They wandered along the coast, wherever rumors of slaver activity took them, though Hawke also used the movement to do as much digging on red lyrium as he could. He exchanged letters with Varric, sending them from towns they happened to pass through, comparing notes and sharing leads. There wasn’t a lot of information to be had, but Hawke collected everything Varric sent him and everything he found, hoping to put it together coherently some day.

The slavers, though, were slowly taking precedence. He and Fenris had needed a few weeks to recover from the last group, a particularly nasty lot whose archer had sent arrows through one of Fenris’s arms and Hawke’s side and calf before Fenris had taken him out. It wasn’t enough to deter them, as painfully stubborn as they both were. After taking a few days in an inn to get back up to fighting strength, they’d received a tip from a villager whose husband, son, and neighbor had all disappeared a few days ago from the eastern fields. They started there, tracking eastward across the country, sleeping in opposite watches through the nights. On the fourth day, they found them.

Hawke crawled on his belly up to where Fenris lay at the crest of a low rise overlooking the slavers’ camp. He relayed the number of scouts he’d seen through the system of hand gestures they’d designed for that purpose, and Fenris frowned. He gestured his concern: it seemed too few for a camp this large. There were three large, distinct groups of shackled slaves, each with a guard of two or three. The numbers rotated. Around the fire in the center of the camp were several more people, obviously the more important of the group. Mages, Hawke assumed, at least a couple of them anyway. Always better to overestimate the number of fireball throwing assholes than underestimate and get burned for your carelessness. With the scouts, of whom Hawke had found four, that added to a total of fifteen people in the camp.

Hawke shrugged: maybe the slavers were falling back to their old ways, feeling more confident in their abilities, now that they had slowed Hawke and Fenris down on more than a few occasions. Fenris gestured uncertain assent, and they crept back to their own camp to lay out a strategy.

They attacked in the predawn gloom, quietly taking out the four scouts as they patrolled the outskirts of the camp.  _ Eleven. _ The guards on the slaves were next. Hawke and Fenris split up, each approaching the camp from a different side, falling on the guards in a silent whirlwind of death. It had taken him awhile to get used to, but Hawke had to admit that  _ not _ yelling your intent to bring death to your enemies gave you a significant advantage in terms of surprise. He Cleaved through one guard, reaching with a hand toward another to Devour. Trapped by the swirling red mist, the guard dropped to his knees, hemorrhaging his life essence to bolster Hawke’s before Hawke took his head with another sweep of his sword. 

He turned to see Fenris elbow deep in one man, the other two that had been arrayed against him slumped on the ground. His eyes met Fenris’s just for a moment, and they shared a feral grin before stepping closer to each other, swords raised.  _ Six. _

The guards from the last group of slaves approached the middle of the camp where the others stood. Hawke counted two mages, as their hands lit with fellfire, a shield warrior, and an archer, and assumed the other two were rogues. He lifted one hand off his sword and flashed a signal at Fenris. They charged as one, barrelling into the mages. Fenris ripped out the throat of his mage, snarling as he turned toward the archer.  _ Five. _ Hawke found himself flung back by a Force spell, and the mage shrouded himself in a barrier, backing away. Before Hawke could gain his feet to go after the mage, the warrior interposed between them, raising her shield and advancing. Hawke had to scramble backward to have enough room to stand. 

He could feel rocks at his back and knew he had reached the cliff that bordered one side of the slavers’ camp. Not a good position to be in, and he launched himself furiously at the warrior, forcing her to give a little ground so that he wasn’t so trapped. He swung his sword in a great overhanded arc, and the warrior stumbled, raising her shield to protect her head. Hawke took the scarce few seconds that distraction provided and surveyed the battlefield. Fenris had dispatched the archer ( _four_ ) but was losing ground against the remaining mage and slowly backing toward Hawke. It was what they did unconsciously, whenever the battle appeared to be turning against them: they closed ranks, pulled together. If they were to die, they’d do it side-by-side, not separated by enemies. 

The warrior Bashed at Hawke with her shield, and he blocked it, shunting the main force of the blow aside. She roared her defiance, and Hawke could hear answering cries coming from farther off. He blanched, not chancing a look at Fenris. The elf had been right about their numbers; reinforcements were coming. They had to finish this quickly. Fenris came to the same conclusion Hawke did and charged the mage even though it took him from Hawke’s side. The mage’s magic stuttered with surprise as Fenris’s Blade of Mercy cut up through him.  _ Three.  _ Fenris whirled and assessed the scene in front of him. Hawke held off the shield warrior, barely; she was a formidable foe, not leaving many openings for Hawke to exploit, especially up against the cliff as he was. That left the rogues. Fenris stilled, willing his eyes and ears to pick up the vague signs of a rogue’s passage. It wasn’t for nothing that he’d fought alongside Isabela and Varric and Sebastian all those years. 

There. The telltale shimmer of a Stealthed rogue. She was sneaking along the cliff, having circled around the main camp to come up behind them. And she was headed directly for Hawke. Fenris couldn’t see the other rogue, but that didn’t matter right now. Hawke’s full attention was on the warrior, cuts bleeding freely on unarmored skin where she’d landed a lucky blow. He wouldn’t see the rogue until it was too late, until those daggers were driven deep into his back. There was only one thing Fenris could do: he charged. Not the rogue, but the small gap of space still left between her blades and Hawke. The blades sunk into his chest and belly, and he gasped, falling to his knees. He tried to heave his blade around to cut down the rogue but only fell over onto his side on the ground, his vision darkening.

Hawke turned at the gasp, screaming his anger at the rogue who stood, defenseless, her blades fallen with Fenris. Hawke took her head before she had time to retreat, letting his swing carry him fully around to parry the blade the shield warrior thrust at him. She faltered at the look of pure rage on his face, stepping back a pace as he continued to yell, as the wounds slowly dripping blood down his arms began to flow freely in a Sacrificial Frenzy. He stomped one foot down and unleashed a Staggering Smite, sending the warrior reeling back. She swayed on the spot, dazed, shaking her head to clear it, but Hawke closed quickly, knocking her shield aside with the pommel of his sword and punching her in the face. He brought his blade down through her chest when she hit the ground, whirling around with his sword in a low guard, eyes on the lookout for the last rogue.

The sight of Fenris motionless on the ground skipped three beats of his heart, cutting through the red haze of the world. He took a step toward Fenris but stopped as a dagger skittered across his chestplate. A pulse of spirit damage and the rogue unstealthed, not ten feet away. Hawke charged, cutting him down and Devouring his life essence, greedily absorbing it into his own body. He breathed heavily, the tip of his sword resting on the ground, dragging behind him as he again approached Fenris’s body. 

“Don’t be dead,” he whispered, half threat, half plea, as he turned to place his back to the cliff once more, standing in front of Fenris as the slavers’ reinforcements poured into the camp.

Hawke couldn’t recall much after that, the bloodlust taking its toll on him as he powered the swings of his greatsword with his own health. He tired, the time between his strokes expanding, though the sight of a giant, bleeding man allowed him a little leeway as his opponents faltered, unsure of what to do. At least there hadn’t been another mage.

When all comers lay dead at his feet, he dropped his sword, squeezing his eyes closed to concentrate on pulling the Aura of Pain back into himself. The blood covering his arms began to dry, cracking and flaking as he sank to his knees next to Fenris. It took him a few tries to unstrap his gauntlets and pull them from his hands they shook so bad. His lips worked silently as he laid a hand on Fenris’s throat, praying to a Maker he’d never believed in that he’d find a pulse.

He nearly gave up, about to remove his hand when he felt it, Fenris’s heart beat, light and thready but there. Still there. He choked back a sob, bending to rest his forehead against Fenris’s.

“Stay with me.”

He stripped the rogue closest them, ripping her clothes into strips, carefully binding them around the daggers still sticking from Fenris. He hesitated, wanting so badly to remove the offending weapons, but he couldn’t tell the extent of the damage and didn’t want to be the cause of Fenris bleeding to death. Instead he tightened the makeshift bandages, hoping they would both steady the daggers so they didn’t cause more damage when he moved Fenris as well as act as tourniquets. After a short debate, he wrapped his hands around the Blade of Mercy and hooked it in place on his back. His own sword he left on the ground along with his gauntlets when he stood shakily, Fenris held in his arms.  The slaves stared at him, wide-eyed, as he picked his way through the bodies and kicked the corpse of one of the mages over to the closest group. The key for their chains glinted on the man’s belt. Hawke nodded and walked away.

It took entirely too long to get back to their camp, Hawke nearly dropping Fenris at the flap of their tent, his every limb heavy with exhaustion. He crawled inside the tent, grabbed a handful of elfroot leaves, and tucked them under Fenris’s bandages as best he could. Hawke downed a health potion, one of their few remaining bottles, and collapsed, half out of the tent, into a dreamless sleep.

He woke with a cold fear pooling in his belly, and he stretched a hand toward Fenris to feel for his pulse. Barely there. He kicked himself for sleeping and dragged his way up and around their camp, breaking down the essentials and leaving the rest. If he could, he’d come back but he wouldn’t count on it. They’d lose a lot, but these things were less than nothing when compared to the life that dangled nearby, solely dependent on his next move. He shoved that thought away; he couldn’t allow himself to become paralyzed now.

Hawke shouldered his pack, settling the strap across his chest, and trapped a hard biscuit between his teeth to eat as he walked before stooping to pick Fenris up. The town they’d come from was four days away, though Hawke was vaguely confident that it wouldn’t take that long to get back there as he wouldn’t be tracking at the same time. A straight shot through the country should shave off a day at least, more if he was able to make good time. They had a Chantry there, and they’d made use of Chantry healers before, though it wasn’t Hawke’s first choice. He had no choice now.

He walked until he couldn’t force his legs another step, setting Fenris down gently and checking for his pulse before replacing the bandages with new ones from his pack, wrapping new elfroot around the wounds. Sleep came fitfully, and he roused himself mere hours after he’d settled down near Fenris, a blanket thrown over them both. He took his meals on the go, cradling Fenris with one arm while the other dug in his pack for biscuits. He ran out a day before he arrived at the town, pushing himself to keep going anyway though every move screamed through his body. His legs felt leaden, his arms stiff and cramped from holding Fenris’s body to his chest for three straight days.

The Chantry loomed before him in the fading daylight as he staggered down the main avenue, curious faces peering from behind curtains. Most of the town’s citizenry was home, and Hawke had a clear path to the huge wooden doors. He struggled up the few steps and stumbled at the top, twisting his body to land against the doors with his shoulder instead of Fenris’s knees. As the doors opened, Chantry sisters rushing forward, Hawke toppled to the ground, Fenris atop him.

He couldn’t hear anything one of the sisters said to him, though his eyes watched her lips form the words.

“You have to save him,” he croaked, fixing his eyes on the sister’s, not letting her look away. “I’ll do anything. Please.” She said something else, but Hawke’s eyes rolled up into his head as he passed out.

Hawke awoke to find himself bathed, his wounds dressed, and his armor gone. The Blade of Mercy lay on the other side of the small, spartan room, behind a young Chantry sister who stared at him in terror, dropping the rag she’d been using to clean with and fleeing the room in short order. He groaned, tried to lift a hand to his head and found he couldn’t. Not for any restraints though, it seemed, when he lifted his head. His arms just felt as though they weighed more than two brontos apiece.

“Try not to move.”

His eyes flickered to the speaker and he recognized the sister from...when had that been? Last night? The day before? He didn’t know. He thrashed, trying to sit up despite the sister’s words.

“Where is he?” he demanded, flopping back down onto the hard mattress when it became apparent he was incapable of getting up. The sister patted his shoulder, and he shook her off, growling. “Where?”

“He is here,” she said, gesturing beyond the door she entered through, toward the Chantry at large. “Our healers have seen to him, but… There is nothing more we can do.”

Hawke surged off the bed, fear coursing through his veins and strengthening his limbs, ignoring the cries from the sister and the two others who had followed her into the room. He gained his feet, swaying but remaining upright, and glared at the sister.

“Take me to him.”

She hesitated and he watched her, implacable, until she bowed her head in assent and led the way out of the room. He followed slowly, dragging himself along walls when there was a handy one nearby. It wasn’t just his arms that were tired; his entire body ached and his head felt fuzzy, as if a jar of confused bees had been let loose in his mind.

They walked the length of the Chantry, or so it felt to Hawke, and the sister knocked lightly at another door, speaking in hushed tones to the woman who opened it. They both looked over at Hawke where he leaned against the wall, and he frowned at them. The woman in the doorway sighed, shook her head, and waved him in.

Fenris lay, gray and unmoving, in a room identical to the one Hawke had been in. Hawke paused in the doorway, his lips parting, breaths speeding up and growing shallower. The sister who had been with Fenris stepped back into the room, placing her body between Hawke and Fenris, drawing Hawke’s attention down to her.

“His injuries are extensive,” she said, speaking in the clipped tones of a seasoned nurse. “I have removed the weapons and repaired what I can, but he will require greater attention if he is to survive. The Circle at Ostwick could send us a healer, though it will take a few days for their First Enchanter and Knight Commander to approve leave for one of their mages.” She continued speaking but Hawke tuned her out, weaving around her to drop to his knees beside Fenris’s bed. His arms dangled uselessly at his sides, unable to grasp Fenris’s hand or touch his hair. So instead Hawke lay his head down on the mattress next to Fenris’s, looking at his still face in profile.

Behind him, the sister fell silent, and Hawke could feel them all watching him. He didn’t care. He sat by Fenris until his legs screamed at him then sat longer. Finally he closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. 

“Hate me if you live,” he whispered before speaking louder so the sisters could hear. “Send the raven.”

His legs gave out when he tried to stand, and he allowed himself to be carried back to his room by six sisters and put back to bed.

The first day they let him get up again he spent following the sisters around, grabbing things off tall shelves for them and sitting in contemplation before the statue of Andraste. He contemplated the purpose behind someone carving a statue that big and whether or not it could fit through the Chantry doors. He thought about how smooth the stone looked at the hem of her robes from so many supplicants touching it after their prayers. He wondered why a life following the Maker and his Bride was so quiet, everyone speaking in whispers all the time. Above all, he held Fenris in his mind, desperate thoughts racing back and forth through his head chanting  _ please don’t die please don’t die. _

He sat at Andraste’s feet long after the sisters got up and went back to their various duties, and they marveled at his devotion.

The healer-sister kept an eye on him, ensuring he didn’t do anything that would upset the work she’d put into him. His arms were healing well, and living in a place with regular, filling meals and proper bedding did a lot to chase away any lingering sore spots or stiffness from his long walk.

In the end, it took nearly a week for the Ostwick healer to arrive. Hawke split his time between helping the sisters, running conditioning exercises, both armed and unarmed, and watching over Fenris. He’d moved his scant belongings into Fenris’s tiny room the day he was allowed out of bed again, sleeping on the floor the first night. No one said anything, but he found a pallet and blanket waiting for him the next night.

Fenris’s condition didn’t improve over the week they waited. If anything, it worsened. There were times when he would stop breathing and Hawke flew out of the room to find the healer-sister, dragging her away from her other duties. Fenris’s skin grayed further and his wounds infected. The sister did what she could, cutting away rotted flesh and wrapping them with healing herbs, but she told Hawke everything she did was simply a stopgap measure, that none of it would save Fenris in the long run. Their only hope lay with the healer mage.

Hawke had expected someone like Anders, tall and scrawny, world weary and churlish. But the man the Templars escorted into the Chantry was none of these things. He laughed and joked with his guardians, who humored him with chuckles and smiles, and Hawke nearly didn’t see him, for the portly mage barely came to the crossguard on the flaming sword inscribed on the Templars’ breastplates. The sisters let the mage into Fenris’s room, half the Templars entering with him, the other half taking up a guard position outside the door. They blocked the door when Hawke strode forward.

“I’m sorry, serah,” the sister said, and she truly did look contrite. “The healer must not be disturbed.”

“But he doesn’t know,” Hawke replied, trying again to reach the door. A bright light flashed behind the door, flickering and stuttering through the cracks around the wood. Hawke surged forward, his fingertips scraping the door before the Templars hauled him back, their vambraces digging into his stomach and chest.

“Don’t touch them!” he yelled, thrashing helplessly against the armored Templars. “It’s lyrium! The markings are lyrium! So help me, you sodding fool, I will see to it you die a slow, painful death if you kill him! Let me go!” 

The healer-sister approached, holding a vaguely smoking cup, and Hawke recoiled, snarling. But the Templars held him fast and he could go nowhere. The fumes wrapped around his head, snaking up his nostrils, and to his fury he felt his entire body go lax, his muscles betraying him. The Templars dragged him over to a pew and returned to their station, shaking their heads. Hawke seethed as he lay there, unable to make sure that the damn mage knew what he was doing. 

As he began to regain muscle control in short jerks of his fingers and toes, the sister from the first night came to sit next to him. She gestured toward the statue of Andraste and folded her hands in her lap, looking over at him occasionally as he moved his arms and legs in fits and starts. He sat up finally , his eyes fixed on the door to Fenris’s room. The Templars still stood guard but there were no flashes of light coming from beyond the door, and though he strained his ears, he could not hear anything. The sister laid a hand on his arm as he stood up, gesturing again toward the statue. Hawke pointed at Fenris’s door. The sister gestured to the statue.

Hawke sighed and sat back down, but he kept his gaze on the door, not the statue. 

Hours passed. Food was brought into the room and an empty tray removed. 

Hawke paced behind the pew the sister sat in, watching the door with every turn he made.

Night came, and the sisters made their rounds, extinguishing half of the candles burning in the Chantry. One sister suggested he get some sleep, and he laughed her away. How could he sleep like this? While Fenris’s life was in someone else’s hands, a  _ mage’s _ hands, there was no way he’d let his guard down. Especially since it was a direct result of his carelessness that left Fenris close to death. He ground his teeth and punched the wall as he whirled for another pass down the Chantry.

The door opened, and the healer came out, supported by a Templar. Hawke rushed over, only to have one gauntleted hand placed against his chest before he could make it to the mage. One of the Templars who had been in the room stepped up, inclining his head in a small bow.

“Serah. The healer has done what he can for today. There is work yet to be done, so please do not disturb the patient.”

“I won’t,” Hawke breathed, looking past the Templar toward the still open door. “I just...need to see him.” The Templar looked back at the mage who shrugged and let out a tired giggle, and that was all the approval Hawke needed. He sidestepped the Templar, nodded perfunctorily to the mage, and nearly ran the few steps to the door. At the threshold he paused, swallowing past the lump in his throat that formed whenever he saw Fenris these last few days.

He stepped lightly into the room, exaggerated movements designed to keep his footfalls silent. Fenris had attempted to teach him the art of walking silently while also walking normally, but it was something Hawke felt he just would never truly master, just like Fenris would never master not laughing at him when he took his large, sneaky steps. 

Hawke pressed his lips together and concentrated on making it to Fenris’s side.

His own pallet had been shoved aside, presumably to make room for the healer and Templars to stand, and he nudged it back into place, snug up against the legs of Fenris’s bed. He knelt and looked closely at his lover. Though still gray and pallid, Fenris’s skin was beginning to darken back to his natural hue, and Hawke could see Fenris’s chest rise and fall with breaths deeper than anything he’d heard in a week. The Templar had said there was yet work to do, but all Hawke felt now was a giddy relief flood through him. He lifted a hand, hesitated, then ran his fingers gently over some of the white strands that lay strewn across the pillow. 

Sleep overcame him as he sat there, and he woke the next morning, his head resting on his arm, his fingers entwined in Fenris’s hair. Fenris’s hand lay next to Hawke’s shoulder, and Hawke couldn’t be sure, but he didn’t remember it being there when he’d fallen asleep. His lips twitched in a near smile, and he vacated the room so the healer could be let in again, though he touched the back of Fenris’s hand before he left.

The next time the mage left the room, he was smiling, talking in a low voice to one of the Templars. He beckoned to Hawke, and they walked a ways from Fenris’s room.

“He will recover,” the mage said, as Hawke opened his mouth. “Given time and rest. I will leave a list of useful potions and herbs for his convalescence with the sisters before I depart. It may be advisable to not put him in whatever situation gave him those wounds again, however.” Though the mage’s eyes twinkled and he chuckled at his own joke, Hawke felt the words as an indictment. Fenris would never have been in that position in the first place if Hawke had been paying attention like he should have . It was up to him to make sure it never happened again.

He nodded to the mage and clapped him on the shoulder, saluting the Templars’ Knight Corporal on his way back to Fenris. It didn’t matter to him whether they left now or stayed for another month; his business with them was concluded.

Fenris’s eyes were open and darting around the room as Hawke entered. They snapped to him, and Hawke could see the lines in Fenris’s face relax then. He crossed the room in two great strides, picking up Fenris’s hand and holding it to his face as he sank onto the edge of the bed. 

“Hawke…” His voice rasped from long disuse.

“Fenris, I—”

“I’m sorry, Hawke, I should have—”

“Don’t you dare,” Hawke growled, gripping Fenris’s hand tighter, his eyes burning into Fenris’s from around his hand. “Don’t you dare apologize for saving my life.”

Fenris huffed, but Hawke could see the slight curve of his lips. He kissed Fenris’s hand and lowered it, letting it rest in his lap, still with his fingers wrapped tight around. They stared at each other for a long moment, and Hawke’s chest hurt with how grateful he was to have Fenris awake and alive and  _ going to be OK. _

“I thought you—” He broke off, looking down at their hands. “I almost lost you.”

Fenris twitched his hand, an attempt to squeeze Hawke’s reassuringly. “I live yet. Thanks to you, I assume. Though…” His eyebrows furrowed. Hawke licked his lips, looking back up at Fenris then just as quickly to the side.

“They sent a mage from Ostwick to heal you. At my request. You would have died without it.” He took a deep breath and met Fenris’s gaze. “I don’t know what he did, they wouldn’t let me in the room. I saw your markings light up the room from outside, though, when he first started. Did he hurt you? I swear I’ll kill him if he hurt you.”

Fenris’s eyes widened and unfocused, and his chest caved in ever so slightly in the way that Hawke had come to recognize as Fenris attempting to withdraw from painful memories or something unpleasant. Hawke grimaced, hating that he had caused that feeling by allowing another mage to use magic on him without his consent, but he didn’t know what else he could have done.

“He did not hurt me, but... He was...clumsy. He touched the lyrium and it reacted, woke me up. He cast some sort of sleep spell, I think. I cannot recall anything else. Until now.” 

In Hawke’s lap, Fenris’s hand twitched again. Hawke held onto it like a lifeline, afraid to let go and find Fenris sinking away from him.

“Fenris, I—”

Fenris closed his eyes and breathed as deep as he could, letting it out slowly. “I need to rest, Hawke. We will discuss this when I am able to sit up.” 

Hawke nodded, though he knew Fenris couldn’t see him, raising Fenris’s hand to his lips once more. He set the hand gently down on the bed and slid off to his pallet on the floor. It didn’t matter if Fenris hated him after this and never wanted to see him again. The only thing that mattered was that Fenris was alive, and as long as that was true, Hawke could handle anything. He repeated that to himself a few times, leaning against the wall at the head of the pallet, arms over his knees, until a frustrated grunt sounded above him.

“At least kiss me before you descend into self-recrimination.”

Hawke laughed once and stood to comply. He never had been able to resist Fenris.

**Author's Note:**

> Intended as a prelude of sorts to [this ask](https://stitchcasual.tumblr.com/post/156487796052/writing-prompt-41-for-fenhawke-d) I answered on my tumblr.


End file.
